


Hand in Glove

by Nilahxapiel



Series: Ed and Oswald Trash [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Bliss, Grey!Ace, M/M, Murder Kink, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilahxapiel/pseuds/Nilahxapiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald attempts to navigate his new found association with Edward Nygma, who turns out to be slightly more tolerable than anticipated. Ed is fascinated by Oswald and, as in all things he finds of interest, may be overly enthusiastic when it comes to the kept Kingpin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fourcardflush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourcardflush/gifts).



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 _"There is one purpose to life and one only: to bear witness to and understand as much as possible of the complexity of the world- its beauty, its mysteries, its riddles."_ – Anne Rice

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“You need to get a suit.”

Ed goes back to work among the oblivious GCPD ( _ignorant jackasses)_ when the weekend is over. Oswald has now seen four of his ensembles. He supposes that some people consider  _sharpness_ of appearance enough (and Ed is eerily _immaculate)_ but Oswald thinks those people were fools.

_A brand._

That’s what one’s appearance is. Would Oswald have pulled off the raid on Galavan’s little party, with a horde of men who looked and walked like him, if he wasn’t recognizable? His hair, his shoes, his suit, his complexion and – however unwilling this particular aspect was – even his _limp_ have melded together harmoniously.

Penguin.

That's who he is now. Maroni had been right about that one thing (that artless blowfish) but he's dead now, and good riddance. Good advice is still good advice even when the speaker is gone, but by far the most useful advice had come from the man ( _the smiley cretin)_ currently getting ready for work before him.

Ed turns to him, blinking, “What?”

“A _suit_ ,” Oswald repeats, gesturing at Ed’s entirely _too_ tall form (really, did he have the _right_ to be that tall?). “If we’re going to be seen together eventually, you’ll have to be presentable.”

“But…” Ed blinks at him in that owlish way of his again, that large mouth pouting. “I _have_ suits.”

“No,” Oswald disagrees remorselessly. “I’ve seen your closet and those aren’t _suits_. You need at least one signature suit to start out with if you’re going to do this right. It doesn't even fit you correctly - you'll need something tailored.”

“Tailored?” Ed smooths his hand down the front of his chest self-consciously, fidgeting with long arms and long fingers. “I usually just go to a department store.”

Oswald gives a tight-lipped, condescending smile, his eyes squinting.

“Mhm, I can tell.”

“Oh,” Ed looks down at himself, as if trying to see what made the suit so hideous ( _have you no sense of presentation? No, I know that’s not true, you like riddles. As abhorrent as they are, it’s more cultured than most of the clumsy criminals this city spawns)._

“You need something well-made.”

“ I should expect that from someone so stylish,” Ed is suddenly smiling (with a long face, dark eyes, and big teeth, he might as well be a horse) and giving him a compliment. “Well – who does your suits?”

“I have a guy who still owes me a few favors,” Oswald says, limping over to the kitchen for a glass of water. “I’ll have him draw you up some designs.”

Once he has the glass in his hand, he takes a long sip. When he looks up, Ed has crossed the room already, making use of those stupidly long legs of his.

“You’d do that?”

“Of course.” Oswald puts on an exaggeratedly gracious expression. “It’s for my sake as well as yours. I’m not going to let an associate of mine make a fool of himself.”

“Protégé,” Ed corrects, tone crisp and chipper.

Then, he steps closer to him, into Oswald’s space doing that _thing_ again where he comes close and locks their gazes (it's a manipulation technique, but not one that he thinks Ed is doing consciously, which is even _odder)._ The man is strange. Clever, too, but those often go hand in hand. Oswald has been called it himself on more than one occasion.

But Ed, Oswald thinks, might actually do well as a predator. Not in the way that Victor is one, and definitely not in the way that he and Fish are, as she _had been._ He is not truly underhanded, and even his lies feel forced - a mockery of fallacy in general. He is more honest in his viciousness (“ _Lately, I’ve been killing people!”)_ , and is damned cheerful about it too.

“I’d like that,” He pauses, grin stretching until he thinks those cheeks might burst, “Oswald.”

Oswald ignores the pointed use of his name, just rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, then sliding away from the counter and passing Ed easily. He doesn't like feeling trapped if he can help it; his size makes it easy for larger men to crowd him. Ed doesn't mean it in the way that it's been used before, as a weapon ( _why the hell didn’t he mean it that way?),_ and doesn't seem to be able to control himself. He's just an eager puppy without restraint.

“Yes, well,” Oswald answers casually, starting toward the table. “I can’t have you looking like you’re going to your high school graduation if you’re going to be an associate of mine.”

Ed follows all the way over to the chair. “Your image is very important to you.”

“Image is important, _period_.” After a moment, Oswald sizes him up with a thoughtful frown, watching the glow from the flickering lights outside cast haunting shadows over Ed’s cheekbones. “You know, green is your color.”

It's a generous commendation, Oswald knows, and is a little sickened by how very pleased by it Ed appears.

Ed peers down length of himself, eyes bright. “You think?”

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“The tea is cold,” Ed points out.

 _They must have taken her in the middle of drinking it._ There is no evidence of a spill, no sign of struggle whatsoever. It is as if Oswald's mother just got up and left. He looks from the archway of the small kitchen at the dingy living room. The power bill has gone unpaid, and as such the only light comes in through the windows, casting a dusky yellow tinge on every surface. Ed tries the sink and finds that the water has not yet been shut off. A fine layer of dust is painted over every surface after several weeks of disuse.

“Let’s get in and out,” Oswald dictates with a forced coolness, limping toward the hallway with a small box in hand. “If the police see your car outside of my mother’s home, they’ll likely have questions for you.”

“Not very interesting ones,” Ed laments, following him and watching the uneven strides.

 _Broken fibula, fractured tibia, luckily only in one place, but it was badly healed,_ Ed remembers his deduction from when he’d had Oswald unconscious in his bed, having examined the pale, crooked leg carefully. _The only way to fix it at this point would be to surgically break and repair it. Penguin would never go for that._

Still, he manages to get around with incredible quickness and ease. Oswald is truly a remarkable, tenacious man.

Oswald pushes the door open and starts over to the sink, plucking up his mother’s hair brush and small mirror. Trinkets. That is all they are there for, and Ed is very pleased that Oswald has taken his advice. Mementos are just _so_ important when it comes to dead loved ones.

 _Or hated ones!_ his mind whispers to him, smiling to himself as he recalls the badge, as well as the dog tags he’d taken off of the stranger who happened to interrupt his and Ms. Kringle’s final date.

When Ed comes back to himself, he realizes the Oswald is standing still by the tub, which is located in the center of the room. Oswald is coming to terms with his mother’s death and what that means, but he still hums in his sleep, and looks off into space when he is reminded of her too vividly.

He peers into the empty tub as if there is something about to jump out at him from the drain.

“You know,” Ed starts, saying the first thing that comes to his mind. “toilets are flushed more times during the super bowl halftime than any other time of year.”

“I don’t follow sports,” Oswald retorts, deadpan.

“Nor I,” Ed laughed his reply, and watches the smile twitch onto Oswald’s face, creasing his features. After a moment, the smile fades, and Ed lets the quiet linger for a while before asking more solemnly, “What were you thinking about?”

Oswald begins to answer distantly.

 “She used to -“

As if thinking better of it ( _Is he embarrassed? Does he feel it’s too personal?_ ) _,_ Oswald stops in mid-sentence and twists his mouth closed.

“Bathe you?” Ed supplies, unfazed. It isn't a difficult conclusion to come to. Oswald shoots him a sharp look that dares him to make a mockery of it, but he merely gives a patient smile. He wishes his mother had taken so much time out of the day for him; he can find no harm in such a close relationship, though he supposes he is one of few. It would be better than the filth he'd been allowed to wallow in as a child.

“…Yes,” he tilts his head to the side in affirmation, shrugging. “She’d run the water cool, then use that sponge and we’d talk, or she’d sing. I’d fall asleep half of the time.”

Ed is a little taken aback by how adorable he finds the image, and is momentarily at a loss for words. A mother's love is truly an amazing thing, and no doubt contributes to Penguin's exponential success. He thinks of a few statistics (mainly about people who drown by falling asleep in the tub) but finally decides that _maybe_ that won't be a welcome response.

“She sounds like a compassionate woman,” Ed finally decides on.

“She was.”

It takes another beat, one where Ed thinks Oswald might cry, but instead he straightens up. He waves a hand flippantly and starts to back out of the bathroom, but Ed holds up a finger and steps in his way. Oswald stops, narrowing his eyes.

" _What?"_

“Did you know bathing has been used throughout history, not just for hygiene, but as a religious ritual?” Ed goes on before he can be interrupted, which Oswald looks very ready to do. “Ancient Egyptians washed twice a day to honor Isis, Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, and it's even been said that Circe washed her head to entice dreams.”

“What exactly is your _point_ , friend?” Oswald barely withholds his sneer, which even at its worst makes his nose wrinkle in a way that is difficult to find intimidating. At least, Ed isn't intimidated, but it may be foolish of him. Men have died with that expression as the last vision ingrained in their mind.

“My _point,_ ” Ed grasps Oswald by the shoulders, intrigued and cheerful at the prospect. “is that I think it would be cathartic for you.”

Without preamble, Ed turns him around, careful not to do so too harshly and jostle his bad leg, but forceful enough to move Oswald in the direction of the tub.

“I need so such thing!” Oswald doesn't quite struggle, but he doesn't _move_ when Ed tries to guide him forward, either. "We're just here to gather a few of my mother’s things –“

Ed drops his tone, “What you _need_ is _closure._ ”

There is a tension in the shoulders, high and tight. Oswald holds a great deal of stress in his his neck, back and arms.

“You’ve already given me that, _Ed._ ”

Ed’s mouth twitches, more pleased than he’d expected to be, and he hadn’t even underestimated it in the first place.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Ed asks, nudging again, and this time Oswald allows himself to be pressed further into the room, toward the tub. He ducks his head a bit, closer to Oswald’s ear. “ _Wasn’t I?_ ”

“Yes, yes, alright, _fine,_ ” Oswald snaps, then pushes his arms up and out, ruffling his coat to get out of the touch (in a way that reminds him very much of feathers) and so Ed immediately retracts his hands. “It’s disgusting in here anyway. Go on and get me a towel.”

“Will do!” Ed answers immediately. He leaves the room and goes into the hall, where he presumes they are located. He’s only just exited the room when he hears the water begin to run.

Oswald needs a firm voice (not a ‘firm hand’, not like _that_ ) now and again, just something to lean on, a direction to go in, validation of a sort – and Ed can provide that. It's one of the things Ms. Kringle taught him.

Ed enjoys his own company, but he also knows he is not immune to loneliness. The past couple weeks that Penguin has spent with him have been, not to exaggerate, the best two weeks _ever_. He’s been unappreciated all his life, and even when it seems like he was getting the recognition he deserves it's because he wasn’t being _himself._ Penguin has taken an interest; he's a leader, an entrepreneur, and – like Ed – has made it despite all odds against him.

They've all underestimated the small, unassuming, disabled young man, and that had been their undoing.

If only they had been cleverer.

If they only knew the kind of man they were dealing with, like Ed has ever since he met Penguin at the GCPD that day. If only they’d had the humility, the guts, the _passion_   that Ed had, has, they might still be alive. They might have become the man that Oswald is going to help him become.

A shudder rakes down Ed’s spine at the thought.

 _All the better for me then!_ He thinks merrily as he finds a towel in a small hall closet. He drapes it over his arm and starts back toward the bathroom. _I have him all to myself._

Just outside the doorway, Ed pauses, still hearing the shuffling of clothing. He has a thought. It won't be difficult to lean over, to just to check up on the man, but immediately withdraws it as an option. After all, he wants Oswald to trust him, and being a peeping tom isn't exactly the best way to go about that.

The fact that he considers it – well, no, that wasn’t all that surprising. He’s done his best to not let eyes linger too long, to remain appropriate and at a safe distance, when he’s had the other man asleep and half naked. He’s been seriously injured, sickly and not the most courteous of house guests, but there is an undeniable magnetism that Oswald is.

Ed is drawn Ed in, _magnetized_. _  
_

There is a slight splash as Oswald enters the water. A minute later Ed hears the squeak of the faucet turning and stream of water quiet. He opens the door and pauses before entering, wondering for a moment if he should speak (perhaps use one of those drowning statistics, now that the mood was lighter) but Oswald beats him to it.

“Just put it near the edge,” Oswald told him without opening his eyes, arms draped over the edges, his pale pallor giving the porcelain tub a fair run.

Ed does, padding over to the edge and folding the towel neatly beside the leg of the tub. He then proceeds to pluck up the sponge and kneels beside him, cushioning his knees with the towel.

The moment the sponge dips into the water, Oswald opens his eyes and sits up.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Oswald hisses furiously, grasping Ed by the wrist and yanking it away.

“Relax,” Ed insists without trying to free his hand, soft but sure. “Let me.”

The glower is intense for a handful of seconds, before Oswald rolls his eyes in his exaggerated fashion, then closes them. He releases Ed's wrist and sinks back into the tub. In gentle strokes, and only over his chest and arms, Ed begins to smooth the sponge over the exposed skin while he sings.

“ _Light another candle…_ ”

Ed knows he has a tendency to slide in and out of key, but Oswald hasn’t complained thus far, and this time is no exception.

 


	2. Chapter 2

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 _“I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us, enslave something in us.”_  ― [Kahlil Gibran](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6466154.Kahlil_Gibran)

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It starts with a trip to the grocery store. They run out of coffee and Oswald _insists_ they go find some immediately because he is _not_ going through the morning without coffee. He won’t take no for an answer. Ed is an accommodating roommate, and supposes he shouldn’t keep Penguin cooped up any longer.

Ha ha! _Cooped_.

Ed recites several facts about caffeine addiction and the history of coffee production while they put on their shoes.

Oswald just wants to get out of the house, even though Ed doesn’t think he’s quite in the condition to go hobbling around with him shopping at odd hours of the night. The winter wind makes his nose and cheeks flush, and Oswald looks healthier than he ever has in the sallow lighting of Ed’s apartment. No matter his injury, the man seems sturdy enough as they stroll out of the apartment together.

Luckily the all supermarket is only two blocks away and it’s after one in the morning so their trip is quick and undisturbed, until they are on the way out.

A homeless man bombards them on the street, pointing at Penguin and giggling drunkenly.

“Didn’t you used to be _that guy_?”

 _Oh, no,_ Ed thinks, suddenly exceedingly annoyed. _Use to be? That’s highly inaccurate and, not to mention, rude._

“Sir, you’re _mistaken_ ,” Oswald snaps, lip curling in anger and revulsion at the dirty figure stumbling toward him. Just as Ed turns around to retrieve him, the homeless man grabs Oswald’s arm, gurgling a laugh.

“You are! Don’t lie to me, you’re that little guy, what did they call you? Pelican? Peacock? Haha –“

Before Ed knows it, Oswald has a knife if the homeless man’s protruding belly. He half expected it, especially considering there’s no one else around.

He goes to withdraw it in order to – Ed supposes – stab him again, but his arm falters. Oswald winces and Ed makes a note to check the stitches when they get home to make sure they hadn’t torn. There is a crease in Oswald’s brow and Ed takes it for frustration and instantly understands why; the Penguin’s MO does tend to be multiple quick stabs, sometimes a twisting motion, but he is unable to exert himself in such a fashion this time.

Ed steps in closer and smiles, watching the dying stranger’s mouth open and closer.

“H…help…” chokes the old man, trembling and swaying, still grasping Penguin’s arm.

“I was just _about_ to,” Ed chastises with a chuckle’s and shakes his head. “Patience is a virtue!”

Oswald’s eyes dart to him, but he seems to understand, and Ed doesn’t bother explaining. He steps in closer still and covers Penguin’s hand with his own, securing the knife further between their mingling fingers.

“For now you may want to experiment with slicing instead of jabbing,” Ed explains, showing him how to drag the up, ripping through as many organs as possible to make sure there’s no chance he could be found and saved before he bled out. The flesh moves out of the way for the blade every time. “This is much more efficient. Until you get your strength back, you should avoid any strenuous activities. Just like… _this._ It’s really quite effective.”

Blood is beginning to trickle onto the ground and the homeless man is starting to slump, so Ed removes his hand from Oswald’s cold one and steps around to catch the homeless man before he makes a mess. He drags him toward the nearest alley and Penguin follows him into the darkness as the streetlamp’s glow gets farther away.

They meet eyes in the last of the light, and they laugh quietly together. Ed smiles broadly, enamored with their mutual exhilaration. The air between them is practically _buzzing_.

 “Well done, Mr. Penguin!” Ed compliments once they’ve gathered cardboard boxes and newspapers around the corpse so that he’s mostly hidden from sight. It had no doubt been the man’s home anyway, so it is actually quite kind of them to put him back where he had once felt safe.

“There’s no need for that,” Oswald mutters, but Ed finds himself in a better mood than a simple trip to the grocery store could have ever left him with. Once again, Oswald has brightened his entire outlook. What good times they are going to have together!

Approaching footsteps drew Ed out of his reverie and he straightened up, abruptly alert. Someone calls out from the street and Oswald perks up too at the sound, shuffling further into the shadows.

“Say my name and I disappear,” Ed spouts rapidly, without warning, “What am I?”

“ _Silence?”_ Oswald sneers his answer almost immediately, “This isn’t the _time,_ Ed. What are you –“

“Hush, someone’s coming. Get down.”

In an instant, Ed is popping into a kneeling position behind the trash bins so that the approaching shadow won’t be able to see them when the person gets the mouth of the alley.

Realizing what is about to occur, Oswald starts to kneel down, _tries_ to, but he simply can’t move quickly enough.

His legs start to falter, to quake under his weight, but Ed is already up again, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s middle. He draws him back firmly against his chest, then drags him down to the ground, supporting him entirely so that his leg doesn’t have to suffer bending at such an odd angle.

“Let g-!”

“ _Shh,”_ Ed hushes again, his mouth at the shell of Oswald’s ear as he keeps him close and still. A tremor passes through Oswald’s form, but Edward is distracted by the silhouette of the stranger that he glimpses just before they get out of view. The bleached hands grip Ed’s arm tightly even when he doesn’t try to pull away again.

“Anyone there?” shouts a man gruffly, shining a flashlight in their direction.

It occurs to him that Oswald’s bad leg has come to rest a bit too far out, and that it’s possible for the man to see his shoe if the light shines too close. It’s only practical to fix the problem now, lest they have yet another body on their hands. Which, while it isn’t the worst option, leaves them with two bodies that can ultimately lead back to them.

So Ed does, as efficiently as he can –whispering an instruction could just as easily get them caught – by sliding a hand down and scooping it around the underside of Oswald’s thigh.

There’s an arch to Oswald’s spine as he curls his hand around his leg, pulls upward, and then to the side in a smooth motion, leaving the fallen kingpin more openthan before, but now completely out of sight.

A choked noise sounds in the back of Oswald’s throat at the motion.

 The sound alarms Ed as suddenly as it excites him, a jolt of worry ( _Have I hurt him_?) and intrigue ( _Did he like that_?) joining together in a searing coil in the pit of his stomach. The arm still around Oswald’s waist presses a little more firmly to the hips just beneath, just to feel the contour of him beneath the layers of fabric.

He feels _good_ there.

A prospect imbeds itself in the base of his skull and Ed wonders how far he can get. How far will The Penguin allow him to go, how much can he stand, how much does he _want?_ Ed is almost certain Oswald acts out as a tool of self-defense, to protect himself (which is fair enough, practical even) but Ed can’t help but want to tear that away from him, just a little, and get a moment of honesty.

_Being true to myself is the best thing that ever happened to me, after all._

There is something skittish about the man, but it also appears that at times Ed can steady him. If only Oswald can let it happen, Ed presumes they’ll both rest easier. As fun as flirting with intimidation and fear was, Ed saw the capacity for an entirely new kind of amusement.

The stranger starts to walk away again, and once he’s out of sight, Ed casts his die.

“You’re trembling, Mr. Penguin,” Ed whispers, and almost immediately Oswald lashes out, elbowing him in the stomach and knocking the wind out of him.

Not very far, it seems. Snake eyes.

The blunt force of it makes him see white; Oswald is stronger than he appears. Ed gives a short, muted cry of pain that originates in his chest and pulls in a series of ragged inhales before he manages to speak again.

“Be _still_ ,” Ed snaps breathlessly, tightening his hold and lowering his voice. He slides his offending hand out from beneath Oswald’s thigh, and moves up to clamp over the mouth that is sure to snarl something vicious and _loud_ very soon. “Be _quiet._ ”

There is grit and frustration in his tone, but of a different sort than he’d expected. He isn’t gone completely; Ed can still hear the footsteps, see the shadow lingering just around the corner, waiting. They need to be silent, so he presses closer, until he’s speaking his words against the shell of Oswald’s ear.

“Trust me, Mr. Penguin.”

Once again, the figure in his arm twists and he can almost hear the nagging voice in his head, sneering something like ‘ _unhand me, Ed, I was perfectly fine on my own!_ ’

“We need to make sure he’s gone,” Ed explains softly, wondering if Oswald tastes of sweat,if he were to lick the skin just below the ear that was currently available to him – _Too much,_ his mind scolds part way, but another part laughs, _why don’t you find out?_

 “ _Ughhhh_ ,” Oswald lets out a harsh groan of frustration against his hand, moving to dig his nails into Ed’s arm instead, out of spite. He’s completely fed up, but Ed’s the one thinking _logically_ about this.

They don’t need any one to recognize him just yet, not until they’re absolutely ready, and – _wow,_ the pressure of Oswald in his lap was getting a _liiitle_ bit distracting. He was shifting pointedly to show his distaste for the entire situation, but it was only making it more apparent how _distasteful_ this all was, in quite a different way. How inappropriate, and how –

Before he knows it, his ears are burning and his cheeks are aching with the width of his smile as he turns further into mess of dark hair. After a series of quiet seconds, Oswald settles against him, resigning himself to his fate (although those nails never do stop digging).

Ah, fate. There’s that little word again. Ed almost betrays his own instructions with a gleeful laugh when he’s reminded of how they came to be in one another’s company in the first place. Just a series of coincidences, or the whole of the Gotham-sphere conspiring to bring them together? Either way, Ed would be a waste in the hands of a lesser mastermind, just as Oswald would no doubt be dead without _his._

The footsteps fade, and after a moment he lets his hand fall away from Oswald’s mouth, convinced of their

“Are you quite done _?_ ” demands Oswald, his tone vicious and almost as stiff as his posture.

“Ah, yes, of course, Mr. Penguin.” It’s simple work to ease away from him, thoughEd’s smile is endless as he follows him back toward his apartment, using the more deferential title to make up for his actions –however necessarythey had been. “My apologies.”

Oswald cast a hard glance back at Ed, then turned away again. “ _Whatever._ ”

-

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-

The problem is this: Oswald cannot _stand_ having old leftovers turning to sludge in the fridge, and Ed has the audacity to rent an apartment without a garbage disposal.

As good as Ed’s cooking is the first time, and even the second or third, he always makes too much. His household, he explains one night, never had enough food around when he was a kid. Just beer and cigarettes, and occasionally cocaine. He makes a lot, keeps it in the fridge for his packed lunches, or for nights he doesn’t feel like cooking, and _only_ when he opens a container (among the _stacks_ of them) and finds some foul substance from a horror film, does he think to scrape it out and into the trash.

Oswald, as usual, has a better idea.

Although Ed is meticulously clean in other ways, this is one thing that Oswald cannot abide by. So each morning after Ed left for work, he would clean out the fridge of anything that looked less than savory by dumping it down the toilet. But on three occasions now he’d managed to clog the toilet into a state of disrepare until Ed could come home and fix it.

At this point, it was more about pride, and proving himself right. There was also something amusing about Ed in his handiness, the fact that he diligently went to work on it no matter how many times Oswald managed to break it. He supposed he didn’t have much of a choice, and he could tell that his patience was wearing thin.

Is it wrong that Oswald is a little curious about how far he stretches?

“You hung up on me,” accuses Oswald sharply when he finally gets Ed on the phone again.

“Could you perhaps _not_ call me when you know I’m at work? Someone almost overheard us,” He hisses into Oswald’s ear.

“Do not hang up on me again, Ed,” Oswald responds instead, ignoring the request blatantly. “The bathroom is _flooding.”_

“If you’d just let me take care of the food, like we talked about –“

“It doesn’t matter,” Oswald interrupted impatiently. “I’ve already phone ordered a garbage disposal, so it shouldn’t happen again. But you have to come here and fix this, _now._ ”

“I’m sorry, what?” Ed’s tone is tight. He’s annoyed with him ( _as if Oswald is the one with idiotic habits like keeping too much food and telling riddles)_. “You expect me to take off work to handle this?”

“Well, _yes,_ ” Oswald replies. _Isn’t it obvious? This is your home. I’m doing my part as a dutiful roommate, aren’t I?_

There is a long pause, a small groan of frustration, before Ed finally deems it time to respond.

“I’m going to need something from you.”

He supposes quid pro quo wasn’t entirely out of order, but he’s been avoiding it so far, riding on the coattails of Ed’s admiration for him. Oswald heaves a deep sigh and figures there’s no way around it.

“What is _that_ exactly, _friend_?”

Ed’s tone perked up a bit, and Oswald predicts what that means accurately. It’s the way his voice gets when he’s about to tell a riddle, or spew an odd fact. Oswald closes his eyes in anticipation for it, and is not disappointed; by that, of course, he means that he is _greatly_ so.

“What can you keep even when you give it away?”

“This is not the time for a _riddle,_ Ed,” he grouses.

“Your word,” Ed spits, and Penguin can practically see his overly expressive mouth enunciating the words. “I need your _word_ that you will not put anything other than your own bodily excretions down the toilet again.”

“There’s no need to get _crude,_ ” Oswald chastises, sniffing.

Ed unfortunately does not yield to his misdirection, and just asks again, “Will you give it, or not?”

“ _Fine._ ”

“Fine what?”

Glowering, Oswald releases an exasperated breath and mumbles his response.

“Sorry,” Ed says, his tenor lighter than it had been a few seconds before. “Couldn’t hear that! Do you mind speaking up?”

_I will make you wish you were dead, Edward Nygma._

“…You have my word.”

“Thank you,” Ed seems in higher spirits now, which Oswald can only ascertain means he is crazier than anticipated. Oswald is more upset than when the lanky bastard had _ignored_ his phone call the minute before.

“So are you _coming?_ ”

“I have to fake a breakdown to get out of work, so give me half an hour,” answers Ed inexplicably, and Oswald is appalled when he hears the second click.

He was going to annoy the shit out of Ed in retaliation; perhaps he’d poor several glasses of water and leave them on the wooden furniture without a coaster, or push the furniture a foot to the left, or rearrange the books in alphabetical order by _title_ instead of by author.

Oh, yes, Ed will _rue_ that attitude of his.

It’s an hour before Ed comes through the door, which gives Oswald more than enough time to set up his master plan to irritate the hell out of his roommate. They’re small things, but they’ll irk Ed to no end, and will give Oswald back his sense of superiority. Making him give his _word,_ and speaking to him in that tone, as if _Ed_ were the mentor in this dynamic. No, absolutely not; Ed was lucky he hadn’t done anything worse. He’d killed men for less.

 _Decidedly less valuable men,_ his brain corrects, but he ignores that idea blatantly. He’s at the table when Ed arrives, carving an apple into thin slices to give himself something to do.

"What took you so long?" he asks without preamble, setting the half eaten apple aside.  
  
"I had to take off  _work_ ,” Ed tells him, pulling his coat off and hanging it up on the hook by the door. “I pretended to be so horribly upset about Kristen that my boss took pity on me and let me go home, but I think she still may be –"  
  
"Kristen? Who is  _Kristen?_ " Oswald interrupts impatiently.  
  
"My dead girlfriend," Ed supplies as he pulls his toolbox out from under the bed. Oswald stands in the kitchen watching with his arms crossed. "She worked at the GCPD as well."  
  
Oswald feels his eyebrows rise. "You didn't mention that."  
  
"Didn't I?" Ed asks, looking up briefly, then shrugging distractedly. He pulls of his work shoes ( _he'll need a new pair of those too to go with the suit)_ and puts on his rain boots to trudge through the flooded bathroom.  
  
"I just  _said_ you didn't."  
  
"I suppose it wasn't relevant at the time,” Ed pushes his glasses up his nose, looking down at the mess that Oswald had managed to make yet again. “What is relevant  _now,_ however, is the state of this bathroom."  
  
Oswald gives an outraged scoff. "I'll clean it up."  
  
Ed seems mildly appeased as he starts over toward the door. "What did you put into it this time?"  
  
"Something brown and yellow," Oswald answered ambiguously, his nose curled in disgust.  
  
"The red beans and rice? That had at least another good couple of days."  
  
"It was  _mush_ , Ed."  
  
"Clearly not mushy enough," Ed gestures pointedly to the puddle of water on the floor. Oswald shakes his head and rolls his eyes; there is clearly a bias here. "I can't take off work every other day. Please tell me you're not going to try this again."  
  
"Of  _course_ not _._ "  
  
"...Oswald," Ed's head pops out of the bathroom, frowning at him disapprovingly, and Oswald isn't very happy to be called out on it.  
  
" _What?_ "  
  
"Please tell me you're not going to -"  
  
"I  _just_ said as much, Ed, will you just  _fix_ it?"  
  
"I already have," Ed reappears fully in the doorway, pulling off his gloves, then stepping out of his boots when he was clear of the water. He rolls his shoulders, fixing Oswald with a suspicious look. “Why are you still in the kitchen, Mr. Penguin?”

Uh oh.

“No reason, friend,” Oswald declares with a smile, and he hopes the fact that he’s mocking Ed’s general demeanor comes across.

“I don’t believe you,” Ed stalks closer, his brows creased and eyes fixed. It’s every increasingly infuriating how quickly Ed can move with his long, undamaged legs. Oswald finds his mood souring with every step Ed takes – and as _usual,_ the man doesn’t stop at a reasonable distance.

“Ed –“ Oswald warns, taking a final step back, blocking view of the last container. Ed finally does halt his approach, but only when he’s towering over Oswald and _smiling_ in that creepy way of his.

“What cannot stand, always reclines, and can be done through your teeth?”

Despite his loathing for riddles, Oswald has found he’s surprisingly good at figuring them out. His mouth twists and he blinks up at Ed, knowing immediately the insult that has been given in the most roundabout way possible. Even if he is one, a very _good_ one, his first response is indignation.

“Are you calling me a _liar_?”

“If the shoe fits, Mr. Penguin!” Ed answers perkily, with a hardness behind his eyes is only exacerbated by the green illumination that flashes in cycles from outside. It makes Ed seem sick, _dangerous,_ and Oswald’s stomach twists. He presses back against the counter, protecting the last tupperware bowl of muck.

"There's only one container left.” Oswald just wants to get out of the kitchen at this point. The counter digs into his lower back and Ed is _much_ too close for comfort. He rolls his eyes again, starting to slide to the side. “Don’t _look_ at me like that, I'll be  _careful._ "

“Like you were this time?” Ed inquires, planting his hands on either side of him. Oswald’s heart leaps into his throat as he looks around for a weapon, but the damned knives are on the other end of the kitchen. “And the last _two_ times?”

He figures he can just pick up the whole toaster, if he’s really desperate.

“As I said, the garbage disposal will be here in a matter of–“

“Yes, _about_ that,” Ed holds up a finger sharply, chuckling, “You said that, and it got me thinking. Where exactly did you get the money for that? You’re _broke._ ”

Oswald huffs, “I used your checkbook, of course, what choice did I have? Once I get my empire up and running again, you’ll have enough money to buy a _hundred_ garbage disposals. More!”

Ed stares down at him, and Oswald decides to go on. His heartrate is up, his shoulders are tense, every part of him ready for fight or flight if necessary, and he’s found rambling is often an effective distraction.

“Though, I _do_ hope you have better money management skills than all _that_ –“

“My checkbook,” Ed repeats, “You’ve been going through my drawers.”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Oswald lies. He puts on an innocent expression, which comes off slightly crooked. “It was for a particular _purpose_.”

The light from outside takes another round, casting eerie shadows over Ed’s face.

“Just let me throw it in the _trash_.” Hands come around to grab for the container and Oswald grasps it tighter, swallowing when Ed presses close.

There are no boundaries with this one. Ed doesn’t seem minutely uncomfortable with their closeness – but then, he hadn’t ever, had he? Especially not that night in the alley; Ed though he could just put his _hands on him_ without consequences?

“I’ll smell it rotting there until morning,” Oswald retorts, and its true (though there’s also just the _principle_ of the matter at this point) thanks to his attuned sense of smell. He can feel his reasoning getting weaker.

“ _Give it,_ Oswald,” Ed’s voice is quieter than usual, his words all teeth.

Oswald releases a breath through his nose, fishing for a way out of it, and is very close to giving up. Ed’s trapped him against the counter and is showing no sign of weakness, and Oswald isn’t entirely sure he can stand it much longer. He has no space, no air, and Ed’s hand is on his wrist as though sensing the hesitation, prying his grip away.

The intermittent green light that often washes over Ed’s apartment catches on one of the full glasses of water sitting on a bookshelf. Those dark eyes flicker to it instinctively, and Oswald can see the expression on Ed’s face turn from dismissive to confuse in less than a second, face dropping its darkness instantly.

“Wait – why –“ He pulls back from Oswald abruptly, giving him room to breathe again, pulling his hands away. Oswald feels the apprehensive weight that had settled in his stomach lift.

Ed does a double take, looking around the room, holding up his hands before him. Oswald’s previous anxieties are overpowered by smugness as he watches the pieces come together on Ed’s face.

“Is something wrong, friend?”

“Why is everything different? The couch is – and the table? And why are there –“ He spins in place, counting on his spidery fingers. “You -? One, two, three, four, five, six, _seven_ full glasses of water lying around the room? On – on the _wood?_ ”

Oswald shrugs and smiles, then abandons the Tupperware to cross over to the bookcase as Ed goes around collecting glasses, grumbling. He picks out a book without looking, drawing attention to the disaster he’s made of the man’s system, ever so satisfied with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two bitches are taking over my life. 
> 
> Feedback feeds the muse. Favorite dialogue/moment/action/thought? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> -Nilah


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